chapter five: M.L.C.

They can see you coming a mile off. Their radar beeps long before you hove into view. An alarm sounds in the prefabricated hut that serves as an office and the boss will put on his overalls if he’s still in civvies or he’ll change into civvies if he’s still in his overalls. The scent on money is overpowering. The mechanics can feel it in the air; the kid that parks the customers’ cars can smell it on the upholstery. There’s a sale in the offing. Grease monkeys are taken out of the inspection pit and are despatched to dust, clean, tidy and polish. The metal work gets a buff, the glass a glisten, the bodywork a rub down and they spark it up just to be sure that the engine is running, that the clutch hasn’t popped and then it’s manoeuvred into prime position on the lot. You’re still ten minutes away but the deal is as good as done and you haven’t even set eyes on your future sweetheart.
When they’re sure that everything has been done, that the trap is set, they hurry back into routine, and feigning insouciance (or they would if they could but spell it) they pretend to work. You’re getting closer now. Closer. You steer the ex-family saloon into the forecourt. No more family. No. No more. So why do you need a gas guzzling, five doored, two litre, electric windowed, central locking, sun roofed behemoth? What can you possibly want with a car that corners like a camel, accelerates like an animal that can’t actually run very fast, and is so superbly spacious and appointed? Just who the fuck are you expecting to chauffeur these days? Who precisely is going to be hanging about at the end of the evening coyly waiting for an invitation? Of whom exactly are you going to inquire, ‘Can I give anybody a lift, then?’ Come off it, this isn’t a pulling wagon; it’s a family car, and you’ve got no family now, remember?
But you could fit a family of kids in the back seat and still have room for a dog. The boot’s big enough for the entire street to fit its weekly shop in. Why do you still need or even want this car? All you need now is that blue T reg box that’s been sitting there for at least a month. You drive past twice a week for ages and it’s still there. Another week of indecision goes by and still it’s there. What are you waiting for? They’re not going to bring the price down. It’s a sensible choice; smaller, more economical, roomy enough for your reduced requirements. And think of the insurance! They’ll pay you to drive it! You pat the steering wheel of the old family saloon with something approaching regret and does the engine really purr in response?
Reversing into place you gaze at the front passenger seat and remember that shag with a pang that hurts like lemon juice on a fresh cut. Coming back from that day trip, just the two of you driving along in the dark, Springsteen on the stereo, taking a short cut over the moors. Who was it suggested that you stop for a bit to…… what was the phrase…..stretch your legs?
Well, something had to give. This was the unsignalled but tacit denouement to weeks of glances and accidental touches. This was shaping up to be the, ahem, climax after days and days of illicit communication, the step across the great divide; the move from which there was to be no going back. And after driving with a hard-on that resembled the gear stick for the last twenty odd miles this deal needed doing and soon.
So you pull over in the dark and deserted car park and you haven’t got the seatbelt undone before she’s on you with her tongue in your mouth, her hands round your neck and shoulders and you’re unhooking her bra and tugging at her zip. Her tits are softer than you imagined, but fuller. The nipples big under your thumb and forefinger and she moans with pleasure. She has you in what feels like a wrestling hold but she’s only manoeuvring you into the passenger side before she hauls off her own jeans and knickers in one movement and climbs on your lap.
You just manage to reach the glove compartment and take out the condoms without breaking the rhythm of the embrace when cramp hits. But she takes your groans as encouragement. So with a slight shift of position you get your legs further into the foot well. Meanwhile she bounces above you, her tits in your mouth, her arse in your hands and a smile on her face that would make a Madonna blush. The rubber in place she’s rapidly transported. She’s shouting ‘Yes, yes, yes…..’.
The car windows are open. There’s a scrap of moon behind the few clouds that are left over from the rain of the earlier day. Bruce is chanting about all the madness in his soul and as a soundtrack to sex what could be better? It’s beatific is what it is. It’s pacific. It’s horrific (no, not horrific, that’s just silly. Ok, so what, it ends in ‘fic’ but come on, you do better than that…) it’s it’s..it’s..it’s specific? It’s traffic (fuck off!…) it’s…it’s…it’s …it’s ….But it’s no use: orgasm is fast approaching and it won’t be denied. And the moon and the clouds and the music and sky and the whole sweet world burst open and you sling the used condom out the window, curl up together, and snog for ages until she pulls away and looks at you and says….....get it right now, recreate the mood, she says in her dreamiest tone… ‘That was terrific!’ and you hold each other’s gaze and you know that she’s the one. Oh my.
Nick’s s there at the window to interrupt the reverie. ‘You want me to look after this for you then or have you got a buyer?’ A buyer. As they say in the trade, a joke. Yeah, you tell him that he can look after it and he leads you over to view the Nissan Noddy Car. But of course you have to go via the black beast they’ve parked so seductively by the entrance. Nick at this point actually guides you away from the beast and steers you by the arm towards the Noddy Car. He’s telling you about the two previous lady owners, the full service history, the mileage…..but it’s background music, wallpaper, and you turn to look at the beast. It’s hooded eyes are closed, asleep, but probably dreaming of handbrake turns. ‘Nah’, he says, ‘you don’t want one of them…..’ But you do. This is exactly what you want. The grease monkeys have left the price sticker in the windscreen and you start to do a quick reckon up. Ok, so, you’d need to think about the double glazing but come on, you came here to buy a car and this is a car. You look back at the Nissan Noddy and then crouch down to look inside the cockpit of the Mazda Mean Machine. There’s three grand difference in the price. Three grand. The holiday to Cuba or the Mazda Mean Machine. Cuba, Castro, Che……or the open road. The last truly socialist republic on the planet is about to succumb to the allure of capitalism. Nick has opened the door for you.
‘Sit in it’, he says, ‘get the feel of it…’
So you sit in it and it feels like a car. It’s also two inches off the ground and you’re virtually reclining in the driver’s seat. Nick is in the passenger seat by now and he’s working two catches up by the roof.
‘Just give that lever a tug’, he says.
So you give that lever a tug and the roof folds back and the sky is blue and the sun is high and you’re in love with this car. ‘That would have taken twenty minutes in an MG’, he tells you.
Twenty minutes later the two of you are on the by-pass screaming at each other over the sound of the wind and the sweeter sound of the 2.6 litre twin turbo double overhead cam shafted engine.
Nick’s shouting something about the specification but you can’t really hear him and anyway, so what if the top speed is electronically limited to 126mph or that the bhp is 380….these are just numbers and you’ve always been more qualitative, more persuaded by feelings. And this just feels so good. Other bits of info just blow away in the slipstream as Nick’s mouth opens and data pops out only to be swept up, up and away. ‘Nismo bodykit…….18-inch alloys…… lower suspension with Bilstein dampers……… electronic torque-split controller….ABS……
Sure there are drawbacks. But who needs a back seat? Who needs luggage space? Who needs a family car when you don’t have a family? Instead you’ve got a dash-mounted CD player and pop-up headlamps. Well, stroll on, guv and point out the down side, please. With a car like this you’ll have everything you need. Well, everything but the girl. But then with a car like this you’ll have to beat them off with a shitty stick. And you don’t drive a car like this, you pilot the fucker. The gear lever and the configuration of the controls just demand a different style. You can’t help but pose. They should issue Raybans as standard. You’ve got to lean into the corners like you’re on a bike.
At the junction for Tesco the tyres squeal and the back end wobbles and straightens and you’re grinning all over. ‘Rear wheel drive’, Nick’s shouting, ‘got to be a bit careful on the corners, especially in the wet’. Oh my.
This isn’t a car; this is a mid-life crisis on wheels. You get black beauty back in one piece and sign some bits of paper and he tells you he’ll have it fixed up and you can take it away in the morning. You collect some stuff from the old hulk and take a lingering look at the black supercar. The name is embossed on its tail in an understated fashion. No need for chrome or fancy lettering. No GTi badges are necessary here. The credentials are all under the bonnet, where they belong. Save for the spoiler it could pass for a normal family saloon. Two door version but what the hey. And what family saloon have you ever seen with a dashboard like this? There’s more illumination here than on Blackpool’s Golden Mile. Tachometer, rev counter, turbo…..
A grease monkey gives you a lift home. He drives like a lunatic but you’ve got to admire the kid’s style. And anyway, won’t you be driving like this tomorrow? Oh my. You and your new (sic) car. Just need somewhere to go in it now.
That night anticipation keeps you awake, constantly checking the clock until you give up at six and get in the shower. Then it’s across the road for the paper at 6.30 and you actually calm down enough to have a leisurely breakfast with Radio Four in the background. Very pleasant. You really ought to do this more often. No pressure at all. Today work can wait. Today is different. And at five past nine, to ironic applause from the assembled workers, you manage to stall the MLC as you attempt to drive it off the forecourt. But you retain some composure and offer them a single digit salute as you re-engage the gears and move off in the direction of the dual carriageway.
The weather is favourable, so you pull in at the first bus stop to take the roof down. Well, it was easy enough when Nick did it but as you struggle with the mechanism there’s a shadow over the journey. The shadow is being cast by the No. 34 bus. The driver and waiting passengers are uncomplimentary about the obstacle they find blocking their way. The advice on offers seems to be along the lines of tossers in fast cars should get the fuck out of the way of buses, bus lanes, bus stops and all things associated with public transport. A school kid boarding the bus asks if it’s your car. You just nod. ‘Bet my brother could nick it’, he grins as he climbs onto the bus. Right, that’s it. First stop, Halfords, where you buy the biggest, heaviest meanest looking steering wheel lock they have in the shop. So, it could double as a weapon but that’s incidental. It fits neatly into the space between the seat and the bulkhead. It’s a bit like having a shotgun rack, except there’s no actual rack and it isn’t a shotgun. Details. Details when it’s the mood that counts.
As you leave the next roundabout, carefully not tramping on the gas too soon, you accidentally flick the lights on the indicator stalk and the headlamps pop up. They’re like gun sights, and suddenly the future is your target. This is getting ……...and you resolve to leave the ordnance metaphors alone for a while as you pull in at a petrol station.
You leave two minutes later and forty three quid poorer and the tank isn’t quite full. Chuffin’ hell. Well, maybe that’s four wheel drive for you. But the sight of you reflected in the shop window pouring precious fossil fuels into the flank of this monster makes it worth every penny. At traffic lights every head turns, glances are sneaked, eyes averted, comments made. You’ll soon learn to ignore these but for now they are a new currency and you are a rich man.
You get the beast back to the ranch and the grunting of the engine as you negotiate the garage at low revs brings the neighbours out to gawk and stare. You even manage to open the bonnet to add some needed water to the windscreen reservoir. And the size of that engine…well, you can’t see the floor through all the machinery. The straight six cylinder block is massive, hence the bump in the profile of the bonnet. And there’s a bright yellow metal bar across the top that seems to serve no function other than to stop all this Japanese precision engineering from bursting out and littering the road. Now you’re no mechanic but there’s something obviously missing and it’s only when you check for the jack and spare that you find the battery in the boot. Makes sense. There’s no room for it in the front, is there?
You try desperately hard to play it cool. After all, it won’t do to be too ostentatious about a car like this. You need to develop an aesthetic distance. And speaking of distance….. all you need is a destination. A long road and a destination. How long would it take to get to London you wonder? The map is shrinking as you contemplate the journey. Nowhere is too far. Nothing would take too long. Horizons broaden. Everything is within reach now, your grasp suddenly its equal. Everything. Everything but the girl?
Your dreams of automotive domination of the motorway network are disturbed by someone knocking at the door to the flat. You look up and see your second ex-wife and the chabby are calling for a social visit. The chabby is a petrol head in the making and he’s noticed the new car in the parking lot. He wants to know whose it is. By way of answer you ask him if he wants a closer look. Does he? Is il Papa of the Roman faith? Do ursine quadrupeds defecate in forested areas of land? Ex is at the kettle so you take him by the hand and lead him downstairs. You unlock the passenger side. His mouth opens almost as wide as the door.
‘Get in’.
By now his grin is so wide his head almost doesn’t get through the door. You turn it on and rev it till the exhaust produces a poisonous cloud that brings ex to the driver’s door. The window glides and her facial muscles struggle for control. She enquires in disapproving tones if this is what you’ve been spending your money on. Now technically it’s no longer any of her business what you choose to spend your money on as long as she gets a monthly cheque and indeed the local bookmaker, off licence, public houses and now garages are all beginning to feel the benefit of your so very recently increased patronage. But you have to be magnanimous in spirit at least and you let her take a turn behind the wheel and she takes the chabby for a spin up to the local Co-op. They both return in elated mood and you put the kettle on in a more relaxed state of mind. You both deal with some childcare timetabling in a friendly fashion. They leave and at the door you get a hug and a kiss from the boy, expected but very welcome and a hug and a kiss from his mum, unexpected and therefore even more welcome. And you can’t help it but your reaction is obvious. She still feels good. She just smiles.
‘Don’t drive too fast now, will you’. She winks and walks away.